Track Switch - Double Traction
by Celefin
The operator pulls me out of my pointless brooding.
“Mademoiselle Nightline?”
I have to smile at how purposely formal he sounds. “Oui, honorable monsieur Cheval?” I can almost hear him smile in the short pause that follows.
“You’re good to go in five minutes. Have a nice night.”
“Thanks,” I reply and look out onto the tracks again. “Alright, Trax.” I sigh deeply. “Since I didn’t do what I should have done and call Irek, let’s at least have a good night together.”
The traction control screen flickers for the blink of an eye.
I give it a long look. “I’ll… take that for a yes?”
Nothing.
Of course nothing! Get a grip.
Thankfully, the shunting signal in front of my train chooses this moment to switch from violet to white. Cannot help but feel a slight disappointment though. I push the throttle.
My verdict about the twin engine setup after a few seconds? Wow. I did not expect to start such a heavy train with such smoothness. Did not even get the moment where the engine takes the full weight on the coupling. Hardly any vibrations.
The hum of Trax’ inverters increases in fine melodic progression as we pick up a little speed while navigating the maze of Gevrey-Chambertin. I pat her console. “Yes, tell him how it’s done.” Him? I have already categorised the DB engine as male. Oh dear.
It takes a lot of switches to braid the sixty tracks of the main track field together, an endless procession of shunting signals. Like glowing buoys on a glittering sea of steel, guiding us through the main field and the secondary departure yard.
A small roadbridge where the sea turns into a river narrow enough to cross. A flashing yellow signal gives us permission to proceed onto the mainline approach, and Trax hums. Almost excited. I smile.
The train sways over the last three sets of switches and we do not even have to wait this time. Another yellow signal, cautiously inviting us out onto the mainline at sixty kilometres an hour. More switches up ahead, albeit gentler ones designed for higher speeds.
The noise of the traction motors increases to rival that of the inverters, and Trax hums with the held back power of two locomotives. I think if she were a pony, she would be grinning. Well, I am. I imagine her screens to grow brighter and more vibrant, the triple headlights burning a brilliant white.
The tracks turn to the northwest, into the southern industrial estates of Dijon. Throttling down even more as we pass another shunting yard, and the tracks take a sharp bend to the east right after.
There is a large SNCF maintenance complex next to the tracks to the north, rows and rows of wagons and locomotives waiting on the sidings. ECR pays for their services. I pat Trax with a wing. “You meet any nice engineers there?”
She hums.
“Don’t make me jealous.”
Fifteen minutes and many bends and bridges later we finally reach the outskirts of the railway labyrinth that is Dijon. There is a green light up ahead where the double track turns to the northeast. Block free.
I feed the two engines, slowly pushing up the throttle and relishing the feeling. The DB locomotive’s weight takes most of the swaying of the wagons, acting as a buffer to Trax. Smooth. Oh so smooth.
Straight and flat through the grey landscape, alone on the track and accelerating evenly, Trax beginning to sing. I spread my wings and-
“Hey!”
-and a small but noticeable jolt. What the hell was that? Trax has stopped singing. Instead her inverters sound… aggravated? I sing a little tune in the voice I reserve for her while giving the screens a worried glance.
My intonation probably suffers due to that, but Trax does not seem to mind. The engine noise evens out again. All systems appear in perfect working order, apart from a brief flicker of a screen.
Shortly after passing the town of Saint-Julien the track turns due north and becomes a straight line all the way to the horizon. A little later we even out at a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour.
A faint point of light in the distance grows into the headlights of the regional express between Dijon and Nancy. I squint against the glare and wait for the whump when our two bowshocks meet.
I can hear it and feel it in my chest, but it hardly causes any vibration. With a smug grin spreading on my muzzle I realize we have too much mass for that in double traction. Oh yes. The other driver and the passengers sure felt that.
“Well done you two,” I say, and pat Trax on the console.
There are some soft clicks and she begins to sing again.
Jolt.
***
At one in the morning we reach Toul, a beautiful town situated a little west of Nancy, nestled in between forests, old vineyards, and the dark waters of the Moselle. An imposing cathedral rises over the medieval town center, its illuminated spires reflecting in canals and cut-off meanders of the river.
Now if only I could enjoy it like I normally would.
“How about you just do your damn job?” Ugh. Still five hours to go and these two are grating on my nerves.
Trax has not been singing for the last two hours, despite the beautiful route we are on. At least not the way I am used to and fond of. What she has been doing sounds a lot more like complaining. Or whining. Not sure yet.
The tracks meander with the river, cut through old-growth forest, and cross the stream on ancient viaducts again and again. Constructed a hundred years before anyone here knew anything about my kind. Rails singing of a bygone era.
There are irritating vibrations in every second bend. The feeling of receiving a tiny push while braking, or a miniscule drag when accelerating. All systems are green. I cannot hear any hint of a mechanical fault. Just off notes in the engine noise for no apparent reason.
Also, we are still perfectly on schedule. More so than usual, despite a few minor delays around Neufchateau. Making good time is a lot easier when you have so much power at your hooves.
A flashing yellow signal, switches up ahead.
We join the northbound mainline between Nancy and Metz, crossing the Moselle once more on an imposing stone bridge. Rolling hills, forests, the meandering river. The rhythm of the rails. Beautiful.
And I am so looking forward to my mandatory break in Metz.
***
Management would not be happy if I refuse to drive a train that has no obvious faults. Not at all happy, in fact. So I am spending most of my break double-checking everything. Engine rooms of both locomotives, wheels, disc brakes, visible cabling. Every coupling between every waggon.
Actually sniffing along the whole damn train for any hints of overheated metal from a failing bearing or stuck brake shoe. Really hope that nobody has seen me hovering about, looking like an idiot. Talk about rumours. Batpony high on brake dust or something.
Of course it has to start raining halfway through my inspection.
Trax and Schencker just sitting there now. I am probably projecting, but I think they look just as annoyed as I feel. Dripping wet and glowering at each other. Dammit. To think that I had been so looking forward to tonight.
***
Are we there yet?
Switching voltage systems in Forbach an hour after leaving Metz, about five minutes from the German border. It is pissing down and my engine reminds me of a foal who does not want to eat what is for dinner. I wish I did not have such sensitive hearing. At least I would be able to ignore the constant discordances.
Every system is green. There are no electric or mechanical faults. I am certain about that. Trax is just being a pain for no apparent reason.
“So very sorry, princess. Fifteen kilovolt it is. If you don’t like it, there’s a maintenance complex here in Forbach and another one in Saarbrücken. Want a French or a German mechanic? We’ll call it a night ten minutes from now. Should I call the operator and tell him my train’s faulty?” Sigh. I do not think I have ever talked to her in such a tone. Makes me sad.
There is a new note to the grating noise. Kinda wavering.
“Scrap the both of you,” I add and lean back with a huff.
That shuts her up.
Uhm.
What exactly did I just do?
The smooth hum of a well maintained electrical engine. Nothing else.
Okay. I am losing it. Definitely need more social interaction. Why did I not call Irek? Because I am a pathetic coward that would rather talk to a locomotive than risk, uh, something. What exactly? Oh horseapples, sometimes I really hate myself. Might as well continue down that track.
I drag both of my hooves down my forehead and muzzle. A deep breath. Another deep breath. This is ridiculous. I clear my throat regardless and sit up straight, watching the screens and listening to the idle engine.
“Trax?”
Silence. What else? Idiot.
Silence of the kind of someone not saying anything. Seriously? I lean forward and touch the console with a hoof, listening intently. “How about we work together again?” I say in the softest and most non-threatening way I can muster.
The glow of the traction control screen becomes a little bit brighter for a second. So faint I might not have noticed it without my nightvision. The slightest of change in the background hum of the idle inverters.
I sit back up, a cold sensation crawling up my spine. Shit. Maybe it is because I want, or expect, to notice something. Trick of the mind, nothing more. Looking around in the cabin that does not show anything new at all, does not sound different at all when I call out in a frequency range beyond human hearing.
The softest of clicks from somewhere in the engine room.
I swallow. By the dark mistress of dreams.
I am so preoccupied with dredging through my memories for other instances that could match this situation that I almost do not notice how the signal in front of my train switches from double red to yellow. My hoof feels wobbly when I push the throttle. Watching the newton metre bar creep upwards. Waiting for… something.
“Sifa!”
The robotic voice of the the German train safety control system cuts through my thoughts. Dammit. I push the deadman’s pedal with only five seconds to spare. Pull yourself together Night, this is getting dangerous. Do not cause an emergency braking by forgetting the most basic of basics and get yourself reprimanded like an absolute rookie.
Calm. Down. Trax has not turned into an AI. Or something unfriendly. Whatever it is she has turned into. If she has. Watch the track and the signals and do your job!
The acceleration is as smooth as when I started in Dijon, and Trax’ headlights peacefully illuminate the edge of the dark forest on both sides of the track. Somewhere around here is the German border.
When we cross the Saar river a few minutes later a thought strikes me. Does the Deutsche Bahn engine feel at home in the German system? Am I being ridiculous again? Is Trax unique? Is this even real or a product of my imagination? Still not sure about that.
Oh my stars. I do not think I will ever hop into the driver's seat in any locomotive with the same feeling as before… before this.
“Sifa!”
“Fuck off!”
***
The terrain turns hillier, noticeable inclines become more frequent. Trax sings her quiet songs while the two engines effortlessly pull the heavy load along. Thick spruce forest covers the slopes above the ever narrower valleys. It is pitch black against the soft first light of dawn peeking over the eastern ridges.
Between two tunnels there are headlights on the opposite track.
Even with double traction my train shudders on being hit by the ICE’s bowshock as it whispers past in a white, red-striped flash. I do love hauling cargo, but I do not think anyone can deny that the white queen has a special magic.
Then again, with my recent experience... I grimace. The ICE-3 version of the Intercity Express has sixteen traction motors spread along the underside of the carriages. Same goes for all the electrics. She is probably a real prissy bitch with multiple personalities.
“Sifa!”
Nightline. Get. A. Grip.
***
Murky darkness has turned into twilight when we emerge from the mountain valleys out onto the old flood plains of the Rhine. Every block signal glows green. Straight and flat and a smooth one hundred and forty kilometres an hour.
I spread my wings and glide. The screens glow brighter. Tamed lightning in her song.
Back in Mannheim once again. The rain returns as we crawl over the Rhine bridge and through the vast track fields of the southern shunting yards. Wet steel reflects the soft glow of green and yellow ‘slow’ signals, muted by the grey drizzle.
Early commuter trains glide past us, empty faces looking out through dirty windows painted in diagonal rows of raindrops. The locomotives and railcars all have the personality of a piece of railway ballast. Dead.
I realise I am petting Trax’ console with a wing.
Out onto the mainline again, turning north towards my final destination. One more hour through the first grey morning light and I will be back home. The rain comes back in earnest, the raindrops hammering against the windscreen.
Lightning flashes in the distance, somewhere over greater Frankfurt. Gusts of wind bend bushes and young trees toward the tracks, only to be whipped back by our bowshock. Green leafs blowing past a green signal.
We pass under the A5 and continue in parallel with the Autobahn. Cars swerving in and out between other cars and trucks, and edging past in a low hanging cloud of dirty spray. Semi-trailers buffeted by northwesterly gusts. It is not even rush hour yet and the A5 is nowhere near capacity, but I am already getting stressed just by watching it.
Reaching Darmstadt, half an hour south of Frankfurt. We roll past the cars that overtook us a while ago, now stuck in stop and go. I never see the cause of the tailback since the A5 turns to the northwest while we approach the city centre. I have to smile.
Grey and dull facades of cheap housing lines the northern approach to the central station. I am watching the overhead line sway back and forth in the wind. The rain is pattering on the roof while I am staring at the single red light on the black rectangle before me.
Ten minutes later, the ICE from Stuttgart to Hamburg trundles past, more than thirty minutes delayed already. I sigh. It was going so well. A few moments later the signal switches to ‘slow’, a green over a yellow light. Finally.
North of the city, two more tracks join us from the east and we are back on the river of steel that flows towards Frankfurt. A signal flashing green in the rain, giving us clearance to accelerate back up to one hundred kilometres per hour.
Five minutes later, Trax starts whining again.
“Seriously?” I say with a deep exhale and roll my eyes. She probably cannot see that. I guess.
A train of tank wagons speeds past us on the opposite track.
We pass a rectangular sign of black and white stripes marking a magnetic trigger point. It is part of the system that controls the automatic gate operation of the level crossing up ahead. The only one of those left on the whole route between Mannheim and Frankfurt.
Whine whine whine.
“Will you stop it?!”
A small jolt and then a soft vibration joins the dissonance.
I see a warning light on the electric brake system controls flickering on and off. I do not like this. I am just about to say something when Trax’ inverters start to scream and half of the console’s lights flash red.
Adrenaline floods my system as I flatten my ears against my skull. It looks like Trax is trying to use the regenerative brake on her own, her wheels screeching on the rails while the DB engine and the weight of the train is pushing her over the wet steel.
Something is very, very wrong. Fuck my beginning career as engine-whisperer, fuck management and sorry to Frankfurt central’s operators. I am done here.
I slam my hoof on the emergency button.
Eight sets of disc brakes clamp down on the wheels of the two engines with a combined force of five hundred kilonewtons. Sand pours onto the rails. The airbrake system depressurises and hundreds of brake shoes drop onto the wagon wheels.
The resulting cacophony is overwhelming. Sparks bathe the trackbeds in flickering light. I grit my teeth and brace myself against the console with both hooves.
Now I can see the level crossing that I am about to block with a kilometre of freight train.
Wait. Flashing warning lights.
There is a car on the crossing. On my track. It has hit another car in front of it and is now stuck under the boom of the crossing gate.
Please no.
No.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
***
I have lost my sense of time, but it appears we have stopped without a crash.
I crack open an eye and look out. Ten metres in front of us there is an ashen-faced man standing behind what I assume is his car, frozen in Trax’ headlights. The rear passenger door is open. He is looking up at me, clutching a crying baby against his chest.
A few hundred metres away, an intercity train screeches to a halt on one of the opposite tracks. My emergency braking maneuver has shut down the whole system. All blocks closed. A throng of people have flocked to the end of the nearby commuter rail platform, all of them staring at us.
By all gods and goddesses.
I slide off my seat, ducking behind the console with its bright screens that are glowing with a red tint. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Nothing.
I touch the console with my forehead. “Thank you,” I force out again against the lump in my throat. Please show me that all of this is not a figment of my imagination. Please show me that I am not mad. Please. Please give me something. Anything. Please be real. “Trax?”
There is a soft hum from the engine room, a modulation that I have never heard before. Screen luminosity and colour return to normal. A series of soft clicks.
I reach up with a shaking hoof and flick the switch to retract the pantograph.
Trax whispers something through the faint noise of compressing springs and scraping metal. It sounds concerned. Soothing. She settles down and goes to sleep. Lucky her.
I stand on wobbly legs and take the two steps to the door. It takes two tries to open it. A gust of cool wind blasts back my mane and forelock and drives raindrops into my face, but it does not matter. Cold is good right now.
The wind makes my landing less than elegant and I almost slip on the wet ground. Flashing blue lights reflect on the nearby station’s walls, the emergency services are arriving. Good, someone please take responsibility here because I feel like I am about to faint.
I just want to go home. Call Irek. Or Penny. But I will have to talk to the police first I guess, and whoever else needs it as well. Craning my head and blinking rain out of my eyes, I look up at my girl.
She just sits there. Unblemished. She just saved a life. Two lives. I do not know how, but I am absolutely certain of that. Without her trying to brake, I would never have hit the emergency button before it would have been too late. And absolutely no one is ever going to believe me.
My ears flick at a faint sizzling sound, like raindrops falling into embers.
I look at the wrecked car on the crossing and then back along the train but I cannot see any flames or flickering light. None of the deck coach carriers have derailed. The cargo is where it is supposed to be. No smoke in the air either, only the faint smell of hot metal coming from the disc brakes.
But there is still that sound, like the hiss of water droplets falling into a hot pan.
From above me.
I slowly turn my head and look up at Trax again. Then I see it. There, airbrushed onto Trax’ door as a birthday present and still without so much as a nick in the paint.
My mark.
Every drop of rain that hits it immediately turns into a puff of steam. Water running down from the roof evaporates before it even comes close.
There is a spot of scorching hot metal right under my cutie mark.
Trax’ mark.